He walks around the table and stops in front of me. For a long moment we just look at each other—father and son, pakhan and heir.
Then he reaches out.
Places one hand on my shoulder.
And nods.
“Welcome home, Artyom.”
I don’t cry.
I don’t flinch.
I simply meet his eyes.
And for the first time in my life, I feel the weight of the Galkin name settle on my shoulders—not as a burden, but as armor.
I’m not going legit.
I’m going to become a mobster as notorious as any who ever carried the name.
And no one—not Viktor, not Ivan, not even my father—will ever see me as expendable again.
Chapter 18
Ivan
My life…
This could be the final chapter.
And if it is… I need to protect my boy.
I pull the Accord into a narrow side street two blocks from the main depot and kill the engine. The city presses in around me—horns, sirens, the low rumble of delivery trucks, the constant chatter of people who have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of.
I sit there for a long minute with both hands still wrapped around the wheel, knuckles white, staring at the dashboard like it owes me answers.
Landon is somewhere in this concrete maze.
He’s scared.
Angry.
Probably convinced I was going to put a bullet in his skull.
Landon has no money, no phone, no safe place to run. Every instinct I have is screaming to tear the city apart looking for him—check the bus terminal first, then the subway lines, then theshelters, then every cheap motel within walking distance of the depot.
He’s smart, but he’s not invisible.
Someone will have seen him. Someone will remember the boy with the backpack and the teddy bear peeking out the top. Fuck. Who am I kidding? This place is a metropolis where people keep their heads down and try not to draw attention. But I have to believe it’s possible, I have to believe there’s a chance I can find him sooner rather than later.
But another part of me—the colder, more calculating part that Kasper spent years training—is running a different calculation. And I hate myself for it.
If I go after him now, I’m burning every bridge I have left. Viktor will know I’ve gone rogue the second I miss the next check-in. He’ll put out a hit on me, and he won’t stop at me—he’ll widen the net to include him. But if I walk into his office and tell him the truth—that I couldn’t pull the trigger, that I let the boy run—he’ll see betrayal. He’ll see weakness. And Viktor has never tolerated either.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes.
The memory comes sharp and uninvited, the way it always does when the stakes are high…
